


Anyone but you

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Series: Snapshots of Two Lives Entwined [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Greg is the best, Idiots in Love, John is a lot not good, M/M, Molly is a Good Friend, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock is Alone, Sherlock is a Damsel in Distress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-25 15:45:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16200623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: Molly said “I am sorry Sherlock but John said that if you came around to let you know that……he said ….he’d rather ….rather have anyone but you. “





	1. Chapter 1

Molly came out, holding Rosie in her arms. She closed the door and came out to the porch. She looked at Sherlock smiling at his god daughter and softly said Hi.

Sherlock asked her quietly if there was anything he could do.

Molly was rocking Rosie a bit and looking contrite and nervous the way she usually did around him. But today there was something else in her eyes. A deeper unhappiness.

She reached into her pockets, reluctantly and slowly, and gave him a letter and said, “It’s from John. Uh…you don’t need to read it now.”

Sherlock took it and just looked at her.

Molly started again. “I am sorry Sherlock but John said that if you came around to let you know that……” She swallowed. The words were sticking in her throat.

Sherlock looked at her curiously.

Molly blurted out “He said ….he’d rather ….rather have anyone but you. “

Molly was crying by this time, still looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at the envelope, put it in his pocket, turned and left.

Anyone but you. Echoing in his mind

Anyone but you…….

.

.

Molly went in and closed the door. She put Rosie down in her crib and texted Greg right away.

_ Can you please drop in on Sherlock when you have the time? I am afraid I had to give him an unpleasant message. _

Her next message followed almost instantly on its heels.

_ I am worried for him. _

When Greg had seen the first text he had already started moving out of his chair. When the second message came he got up instantly and told Sally she needed to handle the press conference.

He had to go.

He went down the stairs rapidly and took a car from the Met pool so he didn’t have to bother with driving and parking.

He knew that Molly had helped save Sherlock’s life during the Fall and he would always be in her debt for that. In any case he had always known of Molly’s feelings for the Consulting Detective and knew that she had seen him and cared for him at his most vulnerable. Just like he had.

So if she was worried enough to contact him he was bloody worried.

A small voice reminded him of the Best Man’s speech incident last year but he shushed it.

.

.

As he rode in the car he texted Sherlock twice but got no reply.

He sat back and ruminated over the rollercoaster ride their lives had become in the last couple of years.

He never knew what had transpired with Magnussen because no one had told him. Above his security clearance obviously. He had never asked Sherlock and definitely not John.

In fact Mycroft had called him some days after Magnussen’s death and spoken to him in a voice that was more deferential than he used with anyone else. Whatever else one may say about the Holmes brothers, they never forgot a debt and they would always return your loyalty.

In his usual calm, almost cold tone Mycroft had told him that Sherlock was going to be sent away on a highly critical secret mission to Eastern Europe.

“When will he be back?” Greg had asked.

“The mission is expected to wind up in six months.”

It was much later as he ruminated on this conversation that he realized Mycroft had never actually said _Sherlock_ would be back in six months.

Eventually Moriarty or at least his video had returned and with it had returned Sherlock’s plane.

Through all of this he had felt side-lined and left out of the eye of the storm that seemed to have settled itself on Sherlock ever since the ‘Study in Pink’-- as John called it on his blog.

John Watson.

Who came out of the blue and became a firm part of Sherlock’s life within a day. Who had obviously been the one to kill the ‘suicide serial killer’ cabbie and save Sherlock’s life. Because that _absolute idiot_ would really have swallowed the capsule.

Greg still felt a pit in his stomach at the thought of that.

He got out of the car at Baker Street and reached 221B after letting himself in with his key.

The flat appeared to be empty. He saw a letter lying open on the sofa and picked it up and read it……… with increasing anger.

He was furious as thunder by the end of it.

John _bloody_ Watson and his sense of entitlement over Sherlock. He had been in the army for god’s sake and had been a surgeon. _Did he not understand that Sherlock was only human??_ Brilliant but flawed and human. The rest of them were equally flawed without even the redemption of being brilliant!

_Did he genuinely blame Sherlock for Mary’s death??_ They had all been standing there when she had jumped in front of the bullet.

He had never heard back from anyone about the bullet injury that had almost killed Sherlock some months back but Scotland Yard’s best could surely put two and two together.

Mary had clearly paid her debt.

And John Watson could go fuck himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I took a vow to protect the three of them you know.” Sherlock said softly.

Greg was going through the flat, searching for Sherlock or for clues as to where he might be, even as these thoughts were raging through his brain.

Bedroom…. empty …..upstairs bedroom…. empty…….

_What had Sherlock done after reading that poisonous letter?_ _Damn_ John Watson. He was going to tear him apart limb to limb the first chance he got.

Kitchen ……empty…… Bathroom….. empty……no obvious sign of drug supplies anywhere.

_John called him his best friend?! This is how he repaid a man who died for him?_

Sherlock had fallen from the roof of St Bart’s for this man…….

Suddenly he stopped mid-rant inside his head. The roof!!

He went out and ran up the tiny fire escape to the mini terrace and was starting to climb up the metal rungs, his heart in his mouth, when he heard the angelic voice of his Consulting Detective.

“Easy Lestrade. If Mycroft doesn’t know you are on the roof no one can rescue you from a fall.”

Greg snorted. He didn’t care what the words were or the tone. He was just delighted that he was going to be insulted for more days to come. He could take that. He could take anything from him really. Anything…….. but another day like the one two years ago when Sally had some in and informed him about the Fall.

Greg peered round the ledge and looked at the tiny spot Sherlock was perched in.

“Enjoying the end of the day?” he asked casually.

“Hmm.” said Sherlock. “Everything come to an end Gregory.”

_The manipulative bastard!_ thought Greg _. He knew exactly when to remember his name-- his entire name, and use it, didn’t he?! Turn him to mush when a scolding was due._

“Yes, everything comes to an end Sherlock.” he replied softly. “But you know that every night also ends in a bright day. We just need to wait for it patently.”

“Hmm….. that’s what you have always done haven’t you? Waited patiently. For everything. For your wife to sort herself out. Then for her to leave you. For Sally to learn some manners. For the Chief Super to grow some brains. For a junkie to get his act together and become a good man.” Sherlock turned and looked at him. “I hope you aren’t waiting for Mycroft to become less meddling and annoying.”

Greg laughed. “Hell no! Even my patience has some limits”.

He toed off his shoes and Sherlock leaned over and gave him a hand.

They were now sitting snugly in a tiny alcove, looking out at the street. St Paul’s dome could be seen in the distance and Madame Tussaud’s round the corner.

London lay spread out all around them in all directions like a patchwork blanket under a slowly darkening sky.

Greg sat there quietly, waiting for Sherlock to take the lead.

People were milling about on the streets, going through the various activities of daily living that keep everyone busy.

“They all have someone to go home to.” Sherlock said eventually. “Everyone but John ….”

Greg seethed internally at that but held his tongue.

After a minute or so Sherlock spoke again. “You read the letter didn’t you?”

“Yes” said Greg sharply.

“You are angry.” Sherlock observed. “You have always been so protective of me. You have saved me even from myself.”

Greg was silent, remembering those terrible days when Sherlock would be found by him after having taken drugs, including twice when he had overdosed and almost been lost to him.

Sherlock was still thinking aloud. “And you hugged me when I came back.”

Greg clenched his fist. “Don’t remind me.” He growled. He did not want to be reminded of what John had done instead. It was only Sherlock’s request that had stopped him from charging the doctor with assault.

“You berk! You push people’s limits and then suffer the consequences. But…” he turned to him angrily. “There is no excuse for violence Sherlock! Never. Do you think that you have angered any one more than you have annoyed and frustrated me over these years? Did you ever, ever, even once in all these years think that I would raise my hand on you? _Ever?!_ People who genuinely care for you would never do that.”

Sherlock was silent for a beat. Contemplating.

But Greg had more things to say. “And no matter how angry I was with you, I had faith in you. If you faked your death there must have been a reason. And there is no universe in which you are alive that I can find reason to want any explanation, let alone punish you for it.”

“I took a vow to protect the three of them you know.” Sherlock said softly.

“Sure you did Sherlock, and that was such a magnificent expression of your love. But we all saw Mary jump. Literally _jump_ in front of you and take the bullet. If there is anyone John needs to be mad at it’s probably the woman who shot at you. Not you. _Never_ you.”

.

.

Sherlock was silent for so long that Greg finally turned to look at him. Greg saw tears rolling down his cheeks and his heart simply couldn’t stay silent any more.

“Oh Sherlock, love, come here” he said and he hugged the younger man with one arm while wiping his tears away with the other.

Just then his phone chirped. _Damn._

He answered and said “Yes Sally, you should get that done. Sure. Yes. Ok. I am trusting you to have my back, as always. I am dealing with a personal emergency. Thanks Sal.”

“The work.” Sherlock said. “It’s important. You should go.”

“Yes it is important. But nothing is more important than you right now,” He said. “…..or always.”

“You love me.” Sherlock said, still looking straight out onto London.

A statement. An observation. A deduction. Not a question.

Greg shrugged. _Probably not the best way to confess one’s feelings really but what was the point in denial now?_ “I do.  But you don’t have to do anything about it.”

“How long?” Sherlock turned to him and asked.

“Difficult to fix a date you know. It just evolved from what it was and one day it was just there. Fully formed.”

“Before I ….left?”

“Oh yes much before that.” Greg said, looking him in the eye. “Before John.”

Sherlock looked away.

After a few beats in silence, Greg said, “Can we go downstairs Sherlock and sit comfortably? My old bones are protesting now”.

“You are not old Gregory.” Sherlock said with a wry smile.

“Yes I am Sherlock.” Greg sighed, suddenly tired. “And it’s fine. This is who I am and this is who you are. We can’t change people. We can only love them for who they are.”

.

.

So the two detectives scrambled down and settled in the living room. Greg made tea and they also had some biscuits.

Greg replied to a couple of texts.

One was from Molly who he reassured.

“Molly asked me to check on you today.” He said distractedly to Sherlock as he typed out a message to her.

“Yes I figured.”

“She really does care for you.”

“I know.”

“One more call from Sally. I need to call her back.”

“Do you need to go?”

“No. Not today. But tomorrow morning I will have to go to work of course.” Greg answered the question that wasn’t really asked.

“So you will stay tonight?” Sherlock confirmed.

He would have said ‘ _If you want me to’_ but he knew Sherlock would never admit to that.

Instead he said, “Yeah I think I will.” And he quickly added, before Sherlock could offer him John’s old room, “The sofa has been good in the past. Also I want a pen and paper if you have one. Will you order takeaway while I make this call? Anything you like.”

After calls were made, dinner ordered and eaten, Sherlock played the violin while Greg carefully wrote on that paper.

The he folded it and put it in his coat pocket.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock needed some time to be in his Mind Palace. To try and trace how he had reached where he had and what he had missed along the way.

After Greg made himself comfortable on the sofa, Sherlock went into his bedroom. He wasn’t sleepy but he needed some time to be in his Mind Palace. To try and trace how he had reached where he had and what he had missed along the way.

He sat cross legged on his bed, fingers steepled and entered his Mind Palace, the way Mycroft had taught him, all those decades ago.

Naturally, the first person to turn up there was Mycroft himself. An expression of pained concern on his face, as always. Sherlock’s first reaction was of exasperation but he forced himself to be patient and reflect. He saw how his brother had always been there for him, at every step of the way, no matter which twisted and dark alleys his little brother tried to hide himself in and no matter how often he indulged in self –destructive behaviour. Though Sherlock would never admit it openly, he was still in awe of Mycroft and his brilliant mind. He saw his brother practically run the entire country and who know how many matters of international intrigue and importance while also managing to be there for his reckless younger brother, time and time again.

He saw Mycroft help him to plan and execute the Fall, without which he would never have been able to save John.

John. The deceptively mild looking man with whom he had felt a connection the very instant he walked into the lab at Bart’s, limping on a cane. John had killed a man to save his life within the first day of knowing each other. Not just killed a man but done it with a single shot, from an enormous distance through two sets of windows, with deadly accuracy, and had then nonchalantly hung around the parking lot which was teeming with cops.

Nerves of steel and a thirst for danger. What was not to like?!

They had bonded like magnets and the next two years had been among the best years of his life! The adventures, the fun, the sheer exhilaration of it all! Two of them against the world. He loved the ex-Army doctor with a ferocity he had not felt for anyone else. The fact that John was Not Gay and had an unending series of girlfriends and dates didn’t take away from that even if it layered that unrequited love with pain.

221B was home because John was there. London was thrilling because John was with him, chasing criminals.

And then one day he had been forced to throw himself off the roof of Bart’s and although he survived, the life as he knew it was irretrievably shattered. How ironic and gut wrenchingly tragic that the man for whom he was willing to die, in fact for whom he had actually died, was the man who had said today ‘Anyone but you’.

Mary peeped out of a room in his Mind Palace. Smiling, clever Mary. Liar Mary. Friend Mary. Who had not only helped bring John back into his life but who had in some ways become his best friend too. Who understood him and knew when he was fibbing. Who was fond of him. Who trusted him.

Who died for him.

He wanted to mourn her. He missed her. He wished he could rewind that day and make sure she never came anywhere near that aquarium. Mary. He felt a tear trickle down his cheek.

How much worse must it be for John?!

John had asked Molly to tell him ‘anyone but you.’

Molly had been so upset at having to give him that message. Brilliant, thoughtful, kind Molly. She had always cared. She had always been there for him. No matter how terribly he had behaved with her. The two years away had made him appreciate the small acts of loving kindness that she had shown towards him. She always saw him and she always knew. She was the only one in front of whom he allowed himself to be vulnerable.

She had seen him at his worst.

No. That wasn’t true. The only one who had seen him at the lowest and most self- destructive time was Lestrade. Gregory. Who had found him at doss houses and hauled him home and helped him come down from a high and had kept him safe. Who had never judged him. Who had always had his back. Whether it was holding him up while he was sick, or holding his hand as he came down from a high or holding him close as he cried and shivered.

Greg had helped him get clean and managed to be a buffer between him and Mycroft. He had helped him get started on his life as a Consulting Detective and had quietly supported him every step of the way. Greg had tweaked rules, suffered rudeness from colleagues, fended questions from seniors, even tolerated being insulted by Sherlock but he had never once been anything but supportive. He had never made Sherlock feel any burden of obligation.

As he thought of Greg suddenly so many images and scenes flashed into his Mind Palace. There were far more memories of him than there were even of John. Greg had been there for him for simply years and years, always in the background, reliable, patient, encouraging, supportive. He had made no demands on him except to stay clean and to help with solving crimes.

In fact there was hardly any time zone in his Mind Palace after he moved to London which didn’t have Greg standing stoically in the background of his life story, his hair turning grey over the last decade but the face remaining the same. Often grim and worried but very rarely smiling and happy. Sherlock knew that he was the cause of both these expressions. Greg was always so proud of him when he solved the most difficult cases. Always willing to give him the credit.

But on the whole Greg always looked so worried for him. Concerned and caring. He had suffered through his own personal problems stoically and alone. But he had been there for Sherlock every step of the way despite whatever else was going on.

He had turned up at Dartmoor and even now the memory Sherlock has is of overwhelming relief at the sight of the grey haired cop standing at the bar drinking beer. _Greg was here! Things would be fine now._ It had given him the confidence to continue his investigations and face the hound in the hollow.

Later, even with the Moriarty endgame recklessly spinning out of control and his own job on the line—the job for which he had sacrificed his marriage—Greg still managed to warn John of the impending arrest. When Sherlock and John finally ran away that day, Greg was the slowest to follow, to allow them to get away.

Although he himself had been swept away in the whirlwind of his life and adventures with John Watson, it was apparently obvious to Moriarty that Gregory Lestarde had an important place in Sherlock’s life.

When Moriarty had said three snipers, of course Sherlock knew one would be John. He guessed that the next would be Mrs. Hudson. But he surprised himself when the third name he guessed was Greg.

When he had returned from the Fall, he had not exactly been welcomed with open arms by John Watson. But Greg? That hug had spoken volumes. That hug had pulled him away from the edge of another abyss. After the disastrous meeting with John, he had in fact been wondering if he should have stayed ‘dead’ but Greg had answered that question by a simple hug. He had not scolded nor had he asked for an explanation.

No recriminations. No judgement. Just un-conditional love.

Sherlock had then been swept away in the path of John and Mary’s wedding preparations and he could see in his Mind Palace the scene with Greg breathless from having almost run all the way to Baker Street, the helicopter hovering outside for maximum back up. His incredulous expression at realizing that Sherlock wanted help with the Best Man speech.

Just then Mycroft turned up again, tapping his umbrella.

‘How much more proof do you need brother mine?’ He sighed. ‘You see but you do not observe. You grieve for a man who punished you for having lied to him even when that was done to save his life. That man being both a doctor and an ex-Army man never once cared to see your scars and ask about the horrors you suffered alone for those two years. Who wanted his own grief to be given so much more value over your sacrifice and suffering. Who moved on and found someone to replace you as a companion.’

Mind Palace Mycroft shook his head sadly.

‘You never noticed the man who saved you and guided you and even moulded you into who you are. The man who believed in you, always. Who had your back and put his faith in you. Who welcomed you back without any questions and recriminations because just having you back was enough. More than enough. This is the man who almost lost his own job and his reputation because of his association with you. The man whose own companion left him because he was probably spending more time with you at work than with her at home.

And the only thing he has ever asked of you is to be a good man.’

Sherlock opened his eyes. He got up carefully and quietly went out to the living room.

Greg was asleep on the sofa, his face looking much younger when it wasn’t lined with worry.

He had left his work halfway to check on Sherlock that evening and had stayed the night to make him feel safe and comforted. Sherlock remembered the feeling of relief that flooded him earlier that evening when he had heard Greg’s steps coming up the ladder to the roof. He had allowed himself to say painful things and even cry in front of him, knowing that all he would get is support and affection.

Suddenly he felt some strange emotion wafting through his Mind Palace.

It took him a moment to identify it. It was a feeling of tenderness. He wanted to make this wonderful man feel as safe and cared for as he made him feel. He wanted to see him smile more often.

He wanted to see him happy.

Examining these strange new feelings he wandered back to his bedroom and actually fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a dream. He also gets another letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are elixir for a writer's soul :) Do let me know how you like it so far!

Sherlock had a very strange dream that night.

He had left his home, his safe place, for a fairground.

It was full of lights and sounds and a buzz of energy. He had whirled around on the merry- go- round and gone up and down the slides and swings. He went high, very high. Then he went low, very low.

There were jugglers and fire eaters and lots of clowns everywhere. Too many clowns actually…..They annoyed him and if he was honest, (as you could be in dreams), they scared him a little. But a very kind bearded lady who looked a lot like Molly took him by the arm and kept him safe inside her tent when one clown came too close to his face and he was almost paralysed with fear.

After a while when his heart rate went back to normal he turned to talk to her but she had disappeared. He kept calling out to John but no one answered him.

He went out of her tent and saw that many people were wearing masks and he couldn’t see their real faces. But there was a lady near the circus tent who looked a lot like Mrs Hudson. She was dressed like a belly dancer and kept saying “Balloons and balloons my dearie.”

He saw a gypsy who was reading palms and telling the future. She had an angry expression and reminded him of someone…….was it Sally? It was too dark to see. He didn’t care for her mutterings at all and turned in the opposite direction.

Just then someone came floating down from the sky, using an umbrella as a parachute, and gave him a very stern look. He ran away from her. Or was it a _him_? He couldn’t be sure. But he ran away because he didn’t want to be scolded and told to behave.

He had run and run and raced from tent to tent and from ride to ride and it had all been colourful and exciting and thrilling and captivating and had left him breathless and delighted and the violin score playing in the background had reached a crescendo.

As he stood there near the gate, catching his breath, looking back at the chaos and bedlam, he suddenly had a feeling, deep inside, that maybe it was now time to go back home.

To his safe place.

To the quiet slow smiles that made him feel warm all the way to his toes. To the powerful steady hands that always kept him from falling. To soft brown eyes that showed so much care and love.

He needed to tell those eyes that while he enjoyed all the circus and the drama, he didn’t need anyone else to make him happy and to share his quiet place.

He needed to look into those eyes and say “I don’t need anyone else. Anyone but you.”

.

.

When he woke up a few minutes later he couldn’t remember the dream clearly. Just a lingering sense of nostalgia and poignancy. It made him feel mellow and soft rather than sad.

He got up and came out to the living room and saw that Greg must have left early. Possibly to go back to his own flat so he could get ready and go to work. But he had had tea and kept the kettle ready in the kitchen with a cup next to it with the tea bag waiting for Sherlock.

There was a folded paper placed on the countertop.

He recognized it as the sheet he had given Greg. He picked it up and opened it. It was dated the previous day and was filled in a neat handwriting.

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_You are the most amazing, brilliant, generous and incredible person I have ever had the good fortune to know._

_I have seen you struggle with addiction and control it. I have seen you suffer the ridicule of small minded people who can never comprehend your magnificent mind._

_I have seen your passion for solving crimes and I want to remind you that there are hundreds of people in this city and beyond who owe you their lives and for whom justice would never have been a reality without your involvement._

_You are superlative at anything you choose to do –whether it is playing the violin or solving puzzles._

_You are also an impossible, extremely annoying and often insensitive madman!_

_But all this is what makes you who you are._

_If I had to choose between this entire world and you, I would always choose you._

_Always you._

_If the world was coming to an end and I had to choose one person to save- it would be you._

_No one but you._

_X Greg_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Of course Sherlock’s dreams include Mary Poppins. She is dark and mysterious and more frightening than comforting actually (and there is that ‘teeny tiny’ resemblance to Mycroft)! Balloons and balloons my dearie! Also a touch of ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ by Maurice Sendak. All my absolute favourites!
> 
> 2\. Fun fact  Bedlam= early form of Bethlehem, referring to the hospital of St Mary of Bethlehem in London, used as an institution for the insane.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock read and re-read the letter three times before he could put it down, his heart rate elevated and his face warm. _How blind he had been to this love that had been there all along_.

In a flash he realized that he hadn’t been blind to it at all. In fact he had recognized it only too well and also his own reciprocal feelings, all those years ago. He had actively blocked it, probably for the same reasons that the good cop had hidden it too.

_Love is a great motivator but fear is the greatest paralytic._

The fearless genius and the brave detective both had decided not to risk the gamble and had spent years, almost a decade now, silencing the deepest emotions they felt for each other.

But now that he was allowing himself to see and feel them he felt unsettled. Something was bubbling inside him. He almost had a desire to giggle. He felt restless and full of undirected energy. He wanted to talk to Greg. He wanted to hear his voice. He wanted to see his smile. He wanted all that now. 

_That was simply ridiculous! How could he think of anything else and solve crimes if his brain was going to be washed over with these idiot chemicals and hormones?!_

_Ugh. Truly Mycroft was right. Caring is not an advantage._

_._

_._

Of course as soon as he thought of his older brother he heard the tell-tale triple tap coming up the stairs. Two polished shoes and an umbrella making its way to the flat.

Mycroft entered the flat after a perfunctory knock. He went in and sat in a chair since there was no point in waiting for Sherlock to offer it. He looked at Sherlock with his usual thin pained smile.

“Quite a collection of ‘love’ letters you have managed to acquire over the last two days brother mine. Almost Victorian in proportion.” He said sardonically but there wasn’t the usual acidic bite in his tone.

He was almost tempted to ask ‘Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week’ but he desisted. _This was not a joke_. He did not want to tease his little brother the way he had wanted to with John. This time he knew the feelings ran deep and true. They always had for Gregory as he had observed years ago. But now from what he could deduce Sherlock was seeing and feeling things differently too.

Mycroft sighed internally. _Caring was not an advantage_. But really, given how much he cared for his brother it had become a mere empty chant on his lips. An age old caution which he had used when he wanted to protect Sherlock from being hurt by bullies, idiots and goldfish.

But Gregory Lestrade, that finest of men, was none of these.

He was a protector. He was mature, intelligent and wise. Mycroft felt anew that he could not have chosen someone better to be at his brother’s side if he had tried.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa scowling at Mycroft during this inner monologue but his scowl was less pronounced than usual. He seemed distracted. His phone buzzed.

It was a text from Greg

_{All well? Busy with a case today but will try to drop in if I can.GL}_

A shadow passed over Sherlock’s face _._

_‘If’ I can. Not ‘when’ I can. Was Greg avoiding him?_

There was a sudden clenching in his stomach _._

_Was Greg regretting telling him how he felt?_

He looked up at Mycroft and as always his older brother was able to answer his unasked question.

“Be patient Sherlock.” He said. “It’s been a long time coming so let it unfold naturally. Don’t push it. See how it evolves.”

“How would _you_ know?” Sherlock couldn’t help asking irritably.

“Ah well,” said Mycroft coolly, “that would be a tale for another day my dear. For now, just trust me.”

“You know I always do.” grumbled Sherlock. “How long do I wait?”

“Maybe two days? That would seem reasonable.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg wanted to bang his head on his desk. He had been an IDIOT. A PRIZE idiot.

Greg looked at his phone. There had been no reply from Sherlock. Obviously.

He wanted to bang his head on his desk. He had been an IDIOT. A PRIZE idiot.

Laid waste to all those years he had spent rigidly compartmentalizing his feelings for that beautiful young man he had rescued again and again, separating them from the professional relationship with that brilliant Consulting Detective.

The compartment walls had already dissolved when the genius jumped from the roof of Bart’s. He had grieved achingly in private unlike John who had worn his sorrow like a white flag to the world. He had faced humiliation professionally, and his already fragile marriage had broken down completely. Apparently Sherlock in absentia was as powerful a force in his life as when he had been physically present. He had been consumed by guilt and desperation at the role he had played in the events leading up to the Fall.

And then one day Sherlock had turned up. Just like that. In the parking lot. And Greg’s sepia tinted world came back to colour and life. He had not been able to stop himself from hugging Sherlock. To touch him and know that he was for real. To confirm that he was not finally going completely mad and hallucinating what was missing from his life like a big gaping hole in his current existence.

The entire wedding mayhem had ensued soon after. Greg still cringed when he thought of how he had reacted to Sherlock’s text message saying ‘Help’. He had been chewed out by the accounts department for days about the helicopter but when he thought about it, honestly, he would do the same again. After what Sherlock had gone through there was no way that Greg would respond with anything less than all the cavalry at his disposal if the man asked for his help.

But he had put up those walls again and managed to keep a professional distance once Sherlock got back to his usual work.

Yesterday when Molly had texted him he had felt that same cold finger of fear around his heart. Mary being shot like that had shaken them all and he knew that Sherlock had been very fond of her. If he had been in Mary’s place he would have done the same. Yes, of course he would have. He still shuddered when he thought of Sherlock falling from the roof. For him. For John. For Mrs Hudson.

He could not imagine what had possessed Mary to do what she did but he was eternally grateful to her. He sighed. John, Molly, Mycroft, Mary….what a long list of all those who had saved this genius madman’s life. He seemed to have had more lives than a cat.

He had been totally shook yesterday when he reached the flat and read that awful letter and ran up to the roof. What a relief it had been to see Sherlock sitting there, safe. He had managed to still keep his feelings under check and scolded him and comforted him as he usually did.

But the tears had done him in.

He simply could not bear the thought of this man who he loved so deeply being so unhappy. This brilliant and beautiful person who had given up so much and who had suffered so much.

All the walls had come crumbling down in that instant and there did not seem any point in denial.

But what in _heaven’s name_ had possessed him to write that letter though?! _Jesus wept_. He slapped his forehead. There is no fool like an old fool. _What had he been thinking_?! That this love letter ( _Oh god how he hated calling it that but that is what it was! Wasn’t it?_!), he had thought that his love letter would erase the hurt caused by John’s poison pen?

_Why would it do that?_ Sherlock cared for John way more than he cared for Greg. He just saw Greg as a guardian, a caretaker. Someone he took for granted. To push against, to work with. He barely managed to remember his first name for goodness’ sake!

This was now going to be so _dreadfully_ embarrassing for them both.  He held his head in his hands. He needed to consider getting a transfer. _How was he going to face Sherlock after his ridiculous letter??_ He was sure that the genius was already wanting to delete it from his mind.

And even if he didn’t…….surely Greg knew better than to expect anything sensible to happen during this time. On the rebound. Ugh.

_Why?? Why had he given in to sentiment?_ Caring is truly not an advantage……Oh dear lord!! Surely Mycroft would know what he had done. That was it….. there was no force on earth that could save him from utter humiliation.

Anytime now he expected to receive a message from the older Holmes asking for a meeting.

He took a deep breath and tried to focus on his work, one ear listening for his phone.

He waited all day and the next but there was no response.

On the third day when he was seriously trying figure how far he could get away eventually (Transfer to Interpol? Move to Wales after taking premature retirement? Volunteer with the UN Peacekeeping Force? Go on a world tour? Settle down in India or Australia?) his phone buzzed with a text message alert.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Hudson kept his tea cup next to him and patted him like he was a good puppy who had finally learnt a neat trick.

The day after Mycroft had advised him to wait, Sherlock heard a knock at the front door. His heart rate shot up when he heard the murmur of sounds as Mrs Hudson opened the door. But it wasn’t the deep gentle voice of Detective Inspector Lestrade but the soft sensitive sounds of Dr Molly Hooper, commiserating with his Not Your Housekeeper, about Mary and John and the Condition of Sherlock Holmes.

_Of course. Greg had a key. He wouldn’t have knocked. What was wrong with him?! This was a simple deduction…._

Sherlock was half inclined to turn his back to the door of the flat and sleep on the sofa in a sulk but knowing Molly she would get even more worried for him and may stay even longer.

Ugh. _Friends._ _People who care_. _Why did they make it so difficult to be sad and angry?!_

He greeted Molly with a thunderous scowl on his face. She was Not Greg and she was likely to Ask too many Questions and Be Kind and all such awful things.

Surprisingly she came and sat next to him on the sofa and tentatively put her arm around his shoulders.

“How are you?” She asked him softly and all the tension left his body.

He remembered this touch and this soft voice. They had seen him through the first three awful nights when he was Dead and Not Dead. He nodded as if to say ‘Fine’ but of course Molly always knew so she let go of him and moved away so she could look at him properly.

“I am sorry Sherlock.” She said gently. “But he is also grieving. I am sure he didn’t mean it.”

Sherlock looked at her. _Why were people like her and Greg so thoughtful and sensitive? Didn’t they just suffer from associated pain all day long? How did they manage to be expert professionals when their brains must have turned to mush from all the sentient and caring?!_

“How do you do it?!” He blurted out. “How do you manage to be so kind and helpful and also do your work?!”

Molly’s eyes widened. “Well…”she stammered. “When you care for people it is difficult not to want to think of them or help them out.” She paused. “It hurts to see them in pain.”

Sherlock always knew that he depended heavily on Molly for her expertise and findings. He also knew that Molly was as good at deductions as he could be. She had proved that during that fake skeleton discovery underground when he had taken her along. He was now getting this sinking feeling that she could probably run rings around him if she wasn’t also thoughtful and sensitive and would never hurt anyone to find her clues and solutions.

_Maybe she could help him with some answers?!_

Mrs Hudson came in with a tray of tea and cookies just as he asked Molly “What if you are in love with someone who doesn’t love you back?”

Mrs Hudson looked like she wanted to scold him but she also looked sad. _Sherlock!_ her expression seemed to say.

 _What?!_ He said back to her with his scowl.

Molly looked at Sherlock and sighed. _He really didn’t know did he?_ Despite the Christmas present debacle, despite her care during the Fall and after, despite keeping his secrets, lying for him, giving him parts from the lab…………..everything really.

“You learn to accept it Sherlock and move on.”

“How would _you_ know?” He snapped at her, suddenly irrationally annoyed at everyone and everything. _Why did everyone else think they knew better?! Wait. Move on. Come here. Go there. Accept it. Don’t give up. Whatever._

He looked at Molly. Her face was flushed and she was looking away.

He made a rapid review of his Mind Palace. _The Christmas gift, the Fall, her kindness, the slap, the soft voice, the reason she was here today…_ ….Oh.

OH!

In his blind obsession with John he had simply not bothered to see the ring of love and protection all these wonderful people had held around him.

 _Anyone but you_ he heard a whisper in his ear.

Maybe the time really had come to accept that and move on…………

Maybe Molly was right. And he realized now why she knew.

“I am sorry Molly.” He said, feeling odd at the kind tones emerging from his own voice. “Thank you.”

Mrs Hudson kept his tea cup next to him and patted him like he was a good puppy who had finally learnt a neat trick.

.

.

Mycroft was watching his little brother go on this steep learning curve. He smiled. Pleased with himself. The two day wait would be needed for Sherlock and Greg if he had read the two of them right.

_And when did he ever make such mistakes?_

His brother needed to ruminate and be confident in his decision and not be impulsive and plunge into something he didn’t fully understand as he often did. And Gregory needed to gather himself and be safe and secure in the knowledge that if something did happen it wasn’t on a rebound and therefore tenuous and fragile.

He looked at the clock. 10 to 3.

In perfect time Anthea came in with the tray and cookies and locked the door behind her.

“And is there honey still for tea?” he asked her, as she sat on his lap and they kissed gently.

He had the ring ready in his hand and put it on her finger as he always did, every day, whenever they were both free and able to find each other in the privacy of this office, away from prying eyes and cameras. After tea and some more quiet stolen kisses she took it off and gave it back when she left his room. She had his heart but they couldn’t risk sharing that information with anyone. It had taken a long time coming but now it was their most precious secret.

 _Oh brother mine,_ he thought _, now that you are learning what it feels like to truly love and hurt, someday maybe I can tell you all about it._

_._

_._

Exactly 48 hours after Greg’s message Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore.

He prevaricated, he changed his mind four times, he wrote and erased six messages.

Finally he sent him a text that didn’t allude to the letter or feelings and was ‘normal’ and could give Greg a chance to take things back to where they used to be …………if that is he wanted to do.

 _Please Greg. Don’t do that_ he begged silently. He remembered the look on Molly’s face and it mirrored the one he had probably had through all these years of waiting for John.

He didn’t want to be that way again.

He tapped ‘send’.

_{Any case? SH}_

_._

_._

Greg stared at the text. Two days after the letter.

This was probably Sherlock’s way of asking ‘ _where are you? Why haven’t you come over?’_

Was it also _‘Come over now!’_

Greg sighed. _Well…. he had already played all his cards. There was nothing left to hide. No ace up his sleeve. No joker or wild card. No walking away from the game._

He replied. {Nothing worth your while. Will drop in after work. GL}

Sherlock saw that response.

_What did that mean?! Was he alluding to something? He didn’t want him on cases anymore? He didn’t ask if I was ok. What does that mean? He doesn’t want to show he cares??_

Five minutes later he was confused, annoyed and restless.

By the time Greg came over that evening Sherlock had read the letter another five times and had cycled through nervousness, excitement, giggling, sadness, despair, apprehension, delight, longing and back to nervousness.

.

.

Greg unlocked the door and went up the stairs. He heard Sherlock playing a tune which filled him with an unsettling feeling of longing. And desire…..

 _Keep it together Gregory_ he told himself _. Sherlock is vulnerable and grieving. He really doesn’t need your emotions to burden him along with everything else going on._

So he went in and sat on the sofa. Sherlock finished the piece he was playing and turned around to look at him. He seemed nervous for some reason. He also sat on the sofa, fidgeting.

“Are you ok Sherlock?” Greg asks kindly.

He can’t not ask. He can’t not care. He can’t hide it all completely. Not now.

“Yes.” Sherlock nods. Then he looks him in the eye and says ‘I am tired of being alone Greg.’

Greg’s eyes turn wary. _Where is this conversation going?_

‘I have been alone a lot Sherlock. It is no fun. But you should never be with someone only because you want to avoid being alone’. He paused. ‘You can be lonely even in a crowd. But I think you know that already’, he gave a wry smile.

Sherlock nodded. ‘What if you want to be with someone who hasn’t been alone for a long time but is free to be with you now?’

Greg’s blood ran cold. _Sherlock hadn’t said a word against John through all their conversations. John was alone now. Free to be with him. Of course Sherlock still wanted to take his chance._

He took a deep breath and said ‘I think they should find each other as soon as possible and not be alone any longer.’

Sherlock looked away. “Yes. Mycroft thinks I should start slow and maybe ask him out for dinner first.”

.

.

There was thick silence in 221B for a few minutes. They heard some cars honking on Baker Street. Someone walking down the pavement laughed loudly and spoke. Speedy’s door opened and closed and the bell dinged. A machine hummed somewhere far away.

Greg’s mind had gone a bit blank. He cleared his throat and was about to shuffle to his feet and say his goodbyes. He didn’t think he could stick around and be supportive about what Sherlock is wanting to do.

_After all, if Mycroft has also approved then it seemed like a done deal already…….._

Then Sherlock spoke quietly. Almost hesitantly.

“So, would you like to go for dinner tonight Gregory?”

Greg blinked.

 _What??_ He heard what was being said. But he heard even louder what was being left unsaid for now. The tension fell away from his shoulders and his face creased up with a slow grin.

Sherlock looked at him and could see the mischievous twenty year old he must have been, before the police work and worrying about Sherlock made him feel grey and old.

Sherlock got up and went to his knees in front of Greg and held his hands. “Would you come for dinner with me Greg?” he asked again, smiling and more confident this time.

“With no one but you.” said Greg, unable to keep the grin off his face.

Just then both their phones buzzed with a text alert. They groaned and checked them.

{Dinner reservations for two confirmed for a private room.7.30 pm at Launceston Place. Don’t be late. MH}

Both of them rolled their eyes and laughed.

Greg kept his phone down and bent forward for a kiss.

A soft quiet kiss. No drama, no deductions. Just a deep and true confidence.

_No one but you. Always you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Stands the clock at ten to three, And is there honey still for tea?” is a quote from The Old Vicarage, which is a famous poem by Rupert Brooke.  
> The poet had initially named it “Home” and then “The Sentimental Exile,” before settling on The Old Vicarage. It just seems like a poem that would arouse similar longing for a love he can’t openly have and also a yearning for the good old days when things were simpler.  
> What can I say? I just love Mycroft even when he isn’t the main protagonist of my stories :)


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